


Joie

by RogueBelle



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Challenge Response, F/M, Midwinter Masque, Plot What Plot, Ratings: R, Romance, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:53:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueBelle/pseuds/RogueBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Queen of Terre d'Ange, alone on the Longest Night, decides she has as much right as any free d'Angeline to take her pleasure where she wills -- and her handsome Captain of the Guard is only too willing to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joie

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a sex scenes challenge at livejournal.com/kushielsorting.

The winter had been mild so far, but that didn't mean that D'Angelines saw any less reason to celebrate the moment when the sunlight began to return, and the celebration at the palace was more magnificent than ever. The whole of the City of Elua was in fine spirits, and the court most of all, breaking the weary routines of winter with indulgent celebration.

Ysandre de la Courcel was dressed as the Hellene queen of the gods, resplendent in golden silk that shimmered in the candlelight every time she moved. Her hair had been dressed in the Hellenic style, coronets of braids upon her brow, the wealth of flaxen curls woven through with gold and purple ribands. It was not the most elaborate or inventive costume of the evening, but it suited her well, and the loose drapes of the Hellenic-styled gown were a welcome change from her usual formal court attire. The masque had been, of course, lovely, but though Ysandre had danced and flirted and laughed, she still felt restless, itching for something more to mark the holiday by.

Ysandre sometimes felt the winters were longer for her than for most, and certainly lonelier, with her husband several hundred miles and a narrow sea away. For so much of her life, Ysandre had to hold herself with the utmost decorum, no matter how the fires in her heart raged. But the Longest Night was a time for rule-breaking, a night to throw off accustomed actions, even for a queen. She had to act, admittedly, with rather more discretion than her courtiers – who were now, several hours past midnight, deep in their cups, either still reveling with gleeful abandon, a riot of laughter and music, or slipping away from the festivities in favor of more private celebrations elsewhere. But just because she had to act with caution did not mean she could not act at all.

She met Amaury Trente's eyes across the room and smiled, in her sly, secret way, then nodded at him meaningfully before darting out into one of the corridors branching off of the main festival hall.

The air in the corridor was cool, as was the marble against Ysandre's back when she leant against a graceful, decorated column. After a moment, Amaury loped into view. Though off duty, he did not appear to have indulged as deeply as many of the others; he still bore his usual keen air, a guardsman's alertness. "You summoned, my lady?"

"I did."

He stepped closer, near enough to smell her perfume – sweetest honeysuckle, alluring without cloying. "And what was it you desired of me?"

"Nothing more and nothing less than your good company, my lord Captain," she said, her voice light and teasing. "You wouldn't want your queen to spend the Longest Night alone, would you?"

The breath caught in Amaury's throat. It was not the first time he'd had such an offer from his queen, but it had been some time. She had to choose her moments so carefully, and it left him with little to do but pray that each dalliance would not be the last. The joie was riding high in her cheeks, an arousing red flush, and her pale eyes had a merry brightness to them.

And one did not refuse a Queen's request.

The silk of her gown gave a gentle susurrus as he swept her into his arms. He could feel the heat of her body through the diaphanous layers of gossamer silk, and his hand found the narrow of her waist, the gentle swell of her hip. She blinked up at him, her lips slightly parted, and his other hand came up to cup her cheek. Ysandre de la Courcel let her stern regal façade slip infrequently enough, but Amaury had seen it, more than once. He had seen her lose her temper, seen her lose that iron control, he'd seen her fraught with worry and uncertainty, and he had seen her, as now, looking nothing more, or less, than a beautiful young woman, aching to be kissed.

His mouth captured hers ravenously, and she melted against him, warm and inviting. Amaury felt like he could sing. As a subject, he worshipped his queen; as her Captain, he would give his life to protect her and die with a smile on his face; but as a man, he loved her with an abiding passion, no matter how infrequently he had the opportunity to demonstrate it. She was light in his arms, and she smelled of honeysuckle and myrrh.

Ysandre smiled as she pulled back from him. Amaury Trente had been her good and loyal friend since long before she had been old enough to notice how handsome he was, how strong and well-formed. She had favoured him in her youthful games of courtship, though they had both known even then that no vows or bonds lay in their shared future, but they were D'Angelines; not all loves were formed alike, and not all led down the same paths.

"My chambers," Ysandre whispered, threading her fingers into his hair.

Amaury's mouth quirked up on one side. "Won't you be missed?"

Rolling her eyes, Ysandre gave a soft laugh. "Do you really think anyone in there is sober enough to mark my absence?"

"You are the Queen."

"And I have as much right to take my own pleasure as any free D'Angeline," she breathed, going up on her toes to kiss him again. There were freedoms on this, the Longest Night, and so Amaury Trent did as he could not have done at any other time, and scooped his queen up in his arms, carrying her out of the public halls and towards her private chambers.

The noise of the reveling courtiers faded to mere echoes in the gilded halls, and when Amaury closed the door behind them, they might have been in another world. There were guards standing watch just outside, of course, but they would neither interfere nor gossip; Captain Trente chose his men well.

Amaury let Ysandre slide back down to her feet, though he still held her close. "There," he muttered, fisting the sparkling golden silk in his hands, "is entirely too much of this in my way." Ysandre's laugh was light and clarion, her head lolling gently backwards. He unpinned the clip at left shoulder, letting the gown fall to expose one high, rounded breast. Amaury kissed his way down from her neck, his lips trailing lightly over her shoulder, the hollow of her collarbone, before he finally bent to take the pink, pointed nipple in his mouth. Sighing with relief and pleasure, Ysandre clutched at his shoulders, feeling his muscles taut beneath the fabric of his shirt. "More," she gasped.

Amaury unpinned the clip at her other shoulder, and the silk slithered off of her body and to the cool marble of the floor. She giggled like a girl as he picked her up and tossed her on the bed, then quickly divested himself of his clothing so he could join her. Her hands roved over his chest, dusted with downy hair, then slid down to grip his hips as her legs parted to welcome him. Dizzied with joy, light-headed and cheerful, Ysandre reached up, stroking the line of his jaw, letting her fingers play along the flash of his throat which rose and fell with impatient breaths.

Slipping both arms around his neck, Ysandre drew him down to her, nipping softly at his lower lip. He kissed her, hard and deep, while his hand stole between her legs, between the soft folds to the nectar within. Ysandre gasped against his mouth, arching slightly off of the bed. She moaned softly, writhing against his hand as he stroked at Naamah's Pearl. "More," she demanded, with panting breath.

"Impatient minx," he muttered, grinning. But he was more than willing to oblige her, his staff hard and aching for her warmth. He removed his hand and placed the tip of himself just at her entrance, and Ysandre slid her legs around his hips to urge him in.

Ysandre half-sighed in relief as he sank inside her, glorying in the feeling of being filled, of having his weight above her. Simple comforts, ones any lover could enjoy, but ones Ysandre could indulge infrequently enough. And so she savored it, savored the shudder he gave when fully sheathed, savored the lust-drugged look in his eyes as he sank a hand into her hair and pulled back her head, exposing her neck to his mouth's ravaging. He kissed and nibbled her throat as he moved inside her, then leant up, bracing his arms so that he could angle himself for deeper, harder thrusts.

She grasped at his upper arms, strong and muscled from years of military service, reveling in the strength and power of him. Their bodies rocked to the ancient rhythm, passionate and sacred, breath coming heavier, groans and gasps louder, more feverish. Ysandre thrashed against the sheets, arching her hips up to meet Amaury's with each thrust, ever faster, the white-hot blaze of need surging through her body until she felt as though her every nerve vibrated like a plucked harpstring. Then all at once, the mounting tension snapped, and rapture washed over her.

It was nearly enough to undo him, the pulsing pressure around his cock, hot and tight and beckoning to every instinct in his body. But Amaury was no green lad, to spend himself so soon; he kept pumping, riding out her tremors, determined to prolong both their pleasures.

He was unsurprised when, after a moment, Ysandre pressed at his shoulders, rolling him onto his back. His hands fell to her hips, gripping tightly as she rocked herself against him in an increasingly desperate rhythm. He stared up at her, this golden goddess astride him, breasts bouncing, her hair falling loose of its pins and tumbling about her face and shoulders. When climax found her a second time, she cried out joyously, her nails scratching faint lines into his shoulders.

While she was still shivering, Amaury tipped her onto her back, pushing her ankles up over his shoulders. With Ysandre quivering in pleasure, mewling in delight, he let passion overtake him. He pounded into her, heat and friction building, until he could no longer restrain himself. With a low, throaty groan, Amaury pulled himself from her, not without great effort, and spent himself on the sheets; there were still some things you couldn't do with a queen.

He collapsed next to her, his arm thrown over her chest, both of them gasping for breath. Ysandre pushed sweat-damp hair back from her face, then leaned over to kiss his brow. "Stay here," she whispered. It was not a command, nor a request, but a permission given, and the familiar wry smile played at the edges of her lips. "It is, after all, a very long night."


End file.
